The hottest fashion accessory this season is the whistle. Whistles have taken off as a tactic partly because they just work: Rapid response patrols, or even just neighbors who happen to be looking out their windows at the right time, can show up when federal agents are active, make a bunch of noise, and gather a crowd. That way, those agents’ actions don’t happen in the dark. They know they are being watched, and recorded, and that matters.
But whistles have also become the central image of this struggle for another reason: They feel real in the way that “call your reps” or “vote in 10 months” or “post on Reddit about how we need a worldwide general strike” don’t always. You can organize a group of friends at a bar to fold whistle zines. You can get your weirdo cousin with the 3D printer to help make whistles. You can visit every business on your block and see who might want to put out a little basket with those whistles. And you can patrol with your neighbors as part of a rapid response group, whistle around your neck, rattling in the winter wind.
There’s a lesson here. People are angry, of course, about the masked bullies rampaging through our city. But people are also hungry for actions to take that are concrete, specific, and practical.
In poetry, we talk about the importance of taking big, abstract concepts like “injustice” and “fascism” and zooming in on them, using images and stories to make them small, specific, and concrete, to make them real. Building a poem around a moment, a memory, an object—this is very often going to be more memorable than building a poem around an opinion or a deep thought.
And what works for a poem can also work for organizing. Most of us don’t show up because of some altruistic impulse grounded in a specific theory of change—we show up because we were invited. Because someone said, “Hey, I have an extra whistle, take it.” Because we were offered something real.
Last week, my partner UyenThi and I facilitated a virtual workshop called “What Can Artists Do? What Are We Doing?” Our assumption was that it would be something like two dozen Minneapolis artists brainstorming a few project ideas; 1,200 people registered.
Again, people are hungry.
The full notes and slides are available here, but let me offer a few highlights:
Artists Are Special, But Not That Special
Before we get to the artist-specific content, it’s worth affirming that there are some calls to action we all share, whether we are healthcare workers, journalists, service workers, educators, or anything else. As artists, sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is actually take our artist hats off and just show up as neighbors.
We can attend an “upstander” or legal observer training (whether via MONARCA, MIRAC, the Immigrant Defense Network, or another group). We can connect to our local rapid-response network (whether by talking to neighbors who are already plugged in, or checking out Defend612). And we can find ways to support each other: contributing to mutual aid funds, supporting immigrant-owned businesses, raising money for legal defense, buying groceries for our neighbors, or offering rides.
Local writer Naomi Kritzer compiled this helpful post, full of even more links and action ideas.
Beyond all that, there is also the evergreen call to “find your political home” and actually join year-round organizing efforts. We also have to affirm that for some of us, particularly those of us in the crosshairs of this campaign of terror, just taking care of our families is the “activism” that matters. We don’t all have to show up the same way.
Artists Have More to Offer Than Our Art
Most conversations on the intersections of art and activism focus on the magical, mystical power of expression and imagination. And to be clear, that does matter. But artists can also contribute in more concrete, material ways.
Fundraising and Resource-Sharing
Artists can use our access to audiences and venues, as well as our skills at promotion and event planning, to organize events or projects that help move resources and money to where they can be useful: supporting immigrant-led organizations, contributing to mutual aid efforts, and beyond. Throw a benefit show. Donate a portion of your sales. “Pass the hat” at the poetry reading. Create a print and send it to people who donate to a particular mutual aid effort.
One local example: MN8 working with a few visual artists to create merch for their deportation defense & relief fundraiser
Amplification and Education
“Speaking out” doesn’t always have to be a notes app manifesto or extemporaneous speech into the selfie cam. Artists can use our platforms (via social media, email lists, and real-life networks of relationships) to signal-boost calls to action from organizers. Rather than positioning ourselves as experts or authorities, we can amplify those whose voices are most vital right now.
One local example: Marlena Myles using her incredible art as a “hook” for this post amplifying the vital work of Pow Wow Grounds and their ongoing fundraising and community support efforts.
Using Artist Space as Activist Space
If the previous point is about social media and digital communication, this one is about physical space: the stage, the gallery, the merch table, and beyond. A band could set aside a bit of space on their merch table for whistles + zines, know-your-rights “red cards,” and/or this half-page handout sharing a few ICE-out-of-MPLS action ideas. We can also find ways to use artist skills as activist skills: event planning, promotion, sound systems, flyer design, etc.
One local example: With this one, I am going to shout out myself. I have a mobile zine library that I bring with me when I perform, so that when I am sharing a poem about consent, or a song about abolition, or a speech about the importance of showing up in this historical moment… I have specific, useful resources I can share with the audience (for free) related to learning more and getting involved. This is possibly the least exciting example here, but it represents something important: Artists have access to audiences who may not already be involved, and we can invite them into the work.
Strategic Narrative-Shifting
If “narrative” refers to the stories and frameworks underneath our values, politics, and actions, how can we contribute to efforts to tell better stories? “Narrative interventions” can be individual pieces of art, but they can also be projects: themed events, anthologies, concept albums, poster campaigns, or zine series that either uplift helpful narratives or disrupt harmful ones.
One local example: Here, we could talk about MPD150, Green Card Voices, the “Greater Than Fear” campaign, and so much more, but I want to lift up current Minneapolis poet laureate Junauda Petrus’ classic poem, “Can We Please Give the Police Department to the Grandmothers?” It’s from a few years back, but it’s an incredible example of art as a narrative intervention to help us tell a different story about public safety, punishment, and community—all relevant right now.
Morale-Boosting, Energy, and “People Doing Stuff Together”
A bunch of dudes jamming together once a week is an antidote to alienation and isolation. Whether it’s a zine club at the library, a monthly open mic, a D&D group, drop-in improv classes, people knitting together at a coffeeshop, an underground queer dance party, a virtual writing circle, or any other collaborative effort—all of these spaces (whether the art is “good” or not, whether it’s explicitly political or not) are where we can connect to community. When your government is trying to bully you into submission, that matters.
One local example: It’s hard to lift up just one example here, because our community is so full of people doing this work. Kalpulli Yaocenoxtli and Brass Solidarity bringing so much life to protests, the “we love our immigrant neighbors” artwork of Sean Lim, community events like the ReEntry Lab’s “Better Things” series—artists are holding us together.
“Hope is the oxygen of rebellion”—Ricardo Levins Morales
In the workshop, we shared many other examples, and participants shared their own as well, via interactive “padlets” where they could answer questions like “What is an artist-driven project or effort you’d want people to know about?” or “What doesn’t exist yet, but could?” You can find all of those discussions (still live; feel free to add your own thoughts), and the full meeting notes, here.
Once again, the point of it all is to zoom in, to take phrases like “meeting the moment” or “the role of the artist” out of the realm of abstract intellectualizing and bring them down to earth. That link shares a bunch of very practical action ideas for artists, and some fantastic examples of people bringing those ideas to life. I hope it can be useful to you, whether or not you identify as an artist.
Local artist Ricardo Levins Morales says that “hope is the oxygen of rebellion.” And for me, hope is something we cultivate not just through writing anthemic songs or painting inspiring pictures. We cultivate it through showing up, collaborating, and modeling a way of being with each other that is less individual and more collective, less transactional and more relational.
When the worst people in this country refer to Renee Good as “a poet,” they say it with a sneer. How weird. How cringe. They hate art—and artists—because we represent a stronghold, one piece of society they can’t just buy, or crush, or be in charge of. No matter how bad things get, there will be murals painted without permission, dancing beyond their surveillance, and poems that tell the truth.
It’s the same reason they hate Minneapolis, come to think of it.
And that’s why we will win.
